“But you’ll get him out?”
“Yes, we shall get him out,” said the young officer; “but I’m growing sadly afraid that he’ll die from sheer fright before we reach him.”
“But you will keep on?”
“Keep on, my lad! Yes, if we have to empty the hold. Why, what sort of savages do you think us?”
He hurried away, and after a lapse Mr Gregory came.
“Help? no, my boy—poor old doggie then! Good old man!—no, you can’t help. If I set you to hold a lanthorn, you’d be in somebody’s way. We can’t half of us work as it is, for want of room. It’s a sad job.”
As he spoke he kept on caressing Bruff, who rolled his stupid great head from side to side with evident enjoyment, while, in spite of the horror of what was going on, Mark could not help a feeling of satisfaction at the way in which his dog was growing in favour.
One hour—two hours—three hours must have gone by, and still the men toiled on at their fearfully difficult task, one which seemed to grow more solemn as they went on.
“Can’t hear a sound, my lad,” said the first-mate; “and I think we’ll try the dog again. Come along, old chap.”
Mark loosened his hold on the dog, and he followed the mate and was lifted down into the great cavernous hole the men had made, while a lanthorn was held so that they could watch his proceedings.